


Dream A Little Dream Of Me

by veritas_st



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 16:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veritas_st/pseuds/veritas_st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Stiles wakes, skin covered in sweat, prickling at the back of his neck and his name an echo in his head, the voice unfamiliar yet he knows it. The dream chases itself away though, skips out of Stiles’s reach even though he still feels strong fingers wrapped around his wrist, the press of teeth just heard enough to hurt against his pulse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream A Little Dream Of Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is not happy. Or sweet. Or at all non creepy. Just letting you know.

Sometimes Stiles wakes, skin covered in sweat, prickling at the back of his neck and his name an echo in his head, the voice unfamiliar yet he knows it. The dream chases itself away though, skips out of Stiles’s reach even though he still feels strong fingers wrapped around his wrist, the press of teeth just heard enough to hurt against his pulse. 

He hates those dreams, the nightmares, the ones where he wakes shaking and jumping at every shadow, the passing of clouds over the moon against his ceiling. Hates the helpless feeling, the fact that he said no but it didn’t matter…not to _him_. Not to Peter. Sometimes in his dreams Peter still takes. 

He worries sometimes, about the sheen of sweat, because it’s not just fear that wakes him, not just his pounding heart and the voice in his head, _so you’re Stiles_ , low, taunting…tempting. He hates the edge of sweetness in Peter’s voice, _it could have just as easily been you_. Hates that as the dreams comes more and more often, he feels like giving in, stopping fighting and letting those teeth pierce his skin. 

He hates that Derek can sense it too, growls low in his throat, nose pressed to the back of Stiles’s neck, _he’s not here, I’m here_ , and makes sure Stiles remember just how real Derek is. 

Neither of them see Lydia with her hand pressed to the window, watching the muscles under Derek’s back ripple as he reminds Stiles that he’s there, not Peter, never Peter. Neither of them see the curl of a sneer on her lips, the slightly glimmer in her eyes as they flicker red. 

Neither of them see the flower on the window ledge as it flutters to the ground and out of sight.


End file.
